echo
by Cora Clavia
Summary: Benton Fraser meets a ghost. And not the normal one.


Inspired by the fic "Running For Safety" by BritDuck21.

* * *

><p>Fraser had caught an unlisted flight out of Inuvik at night. He normally enjoys sunny flights over the tundra, chatting with pilots and fellow passengers, but it's been too long. He just needs to be home.<p>

He reaches the cabin before dawn. The valley is pale and soft in the shadows, the thin blanket of snow casting everything in silvery white. Hopeless as everything is, he can't help but appreciate the beauty, the eternal vastness of this stunning, desolate landscape. It's the single thing he misses most in Chicago; he's come to love the people, but he misses the land. And the sky.

He's about to open the door when he sees Diefenbaker's sudden change in mood. The wolfdog is frantic, pawing at his leg, straining at the door. He's not snarling, and his fur isn't raised, so it's not danger. If anything, he's eager to get inside.

Still, Fraser pauses, opening the door slowly.

The cabin's dark, silent. But something's off.

He can't quite put his finger on it. Nothing looks out of place. Everything is still, dark, lit only by the reflected gleam of the snow through the windows.

Diefenbaker whines, nosing him inside, and Fraser scratches his ears. "What is it? Do you smell something?"

Dief huffs and pushes past him, trotting straight for the bedroom. Fraser sets down his pack and follows cautiously, his footsteps slow and silent.

He ducks through the doorway to find Diefenbaker sitting calmly beside his bed, tail twitching.

His bed's not empty.

And it's not a stranger.

His whole body freezes, every muscle tense, and it's a sudden struggle to breathe. Fraser blinks, but the picture doesn't change.

Meg Thatcher, who's been missing for eleven months and is currently presumed dead, is asleep in his bed.

He doesn't know what to do. His heart is pounding in his chest, and his ears are rushing.

All he can see is the crime scene tape at her apartment. Broken glass, splintered furniture. Bloodstains in the carpet. A neighbor remembered hearing screams.

From the amount of blood, the police were all but certain she couldn't have survived. But her body was never found. Fraser went over the crime scene endlessly, pleading with the Chicago police to keep the case open. He pointed at the footprints - some had clearly been purposely blurred, indicating multiple people in the apartment - and insisted there was something more to this than a simple home invasion. But though Ray and his colleagues had worked tirelessly, even with their contacts from the FBI, they never found a trace of her. She was gone.

Dief whines again. Her eyes flutter open, and Fraser can't move.

She gasps, scrambling to sit up as she sees the wolf, and then her eyes flick up to meet his and she freezes, her mouth open.

"Fraser."

He finds his voice, but it's not quite steady. "In-Inspector -"

What happened?

"Inspector, I - what are you doing here?" _In my bed_ is on the tip of his tongue, but he can't bring himself to form the words.

She sits upright, running a hand through her tousled hair, and it's at once so perfectly her and yet so strangely domestic that Fraser isn't sure how to process any of this.

"I'm hiding." She lets out a breath. "I didn't think you would be here. Not for a while, anyway."

"It was - a - a sudden decision." Because he just couldn't stay in Chicago anymore. He needed air. It's an extended leave of absence that he'd wanted to last forever.

He has so many questions, so many things he _needs_ to know, that he's not even sure where to start. He's still trying to rationalize the sight of the woman he'd begun to truly believe had died violently a year ago, now sitting in his bed, wrapped in a faded sweatshirt, her knees pulled up against her chest.

She looks so young.

"Fraser - I'm sorry, I know this is - um - a lot to take in. If I could - just - have a minute to get dressed?"

"Of course," he responds almost automatically. Formality. Easier to digest than this soft, sleepy version of Meg Thatcher whose presence here is inexplicable. "I'll just - I'll make breakfast."

* * *

><p>Fraser busies himself in the cabin's main room, lighting a fire, opening up the kitchen. The water's on, the electricity connected, but the cabin is chilly. Of course, if she's been hiding, she wouldn't have lit a fire. There's a small space heater in the bedroom that she had turned on, but even so, he wonders if she's been warm enough.<p>

He's brought a sack of groceries with him, and opening the cupboards, he discovers a few foods she must have brought. So he pulls out flour and eggs, looks through the rest of his supplies, and starts mixing up pancakes.

He'd thought she was dead.

Her apparent murder had shattered him. In the weeks leading up to that knock on his door in the middle of the night, something had changed between them. It was subtle, hard to define, but there was more softness in her manner towards him, a smile hovering at the corners of her mouth.

There was one evening, late after a formal function, the two of them had sat in her office for two hours, just talking. When she rose to leave, there was a moment, the two of them so close, when he'd almost kissed her. And the look in her eyes had said_ yes_.

Then she vanished.

And now she's here, in his home, and the flood of emotions tightening in his chest is only getting worse.

"Fraser?"

He turns to find her in the doorway, now dressed in jeans and a soft green sweater. She's still very pale. "Breakfast should be ready soon, ma'am."

She nods. "Is there anything I can help with?"

"No, thank you, ma'am."

She seems to accept that, sitting at the little kitchen table, watching him. He can see a slight hitch in her walk; she's just barely favoring her right side.

He remembers the blood-soaked duvet from her apartment. Bloody handprints on the wall. A trail on the carpet where she must have dragged herself, and a pool where she must have collapsed.

The thought is sharp, like a knife to his ribs. He has to say something. "How long have you been here?"

"A week."

He glances back at her. Diefenbaker is sniffing her hand curiously. Dief was never quite sure how to feel about her in Chicago. And he always seemed scornful whenever Fraser let slip his feelings.

He finishes cooking breakfast in comfortable silence - she's absorbed in scratching Dief's ears - and they eat quietly as the sun spills into the little cabin.

He has a thousand questions, but he's not sure how to begin what's probably going to be a lengthy conversation.

As it turns out, she starts. "You must be wondering why I'm here. What happened that night."

He nods slowly. "Yes."

She sets down her fork, looking quietly at her plate. He's still unnerved by this version of her, the steely spine he'd come to know and respect completely gone. "Well, I'm sure you know the beginning, at least."

It hadn't seemed real until he walked into her building and saw the splintered wood of the doorframe. The shattered coffee table. His whole body had gone cold. The last time that he'd felt that, he'd heard the words _I'm sorry, Constable. It's about your father_.

That icy grip has locked around his chest since that day. Some nights, he found himself lying on his bedroll, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the blood. Imagining the struggle that must have happened.

"I - I saw the crime scene," he admits.

She nods. There's a scar on her forehead now, he sees. "Nothing was staged. Everything you saw was real."

"So - that was - it was all real? I thought -"

"I know. And - I'm sorry. I couldn't tell anyone. My parents know I'm alive, but even they don't know where I am."

"Who attacked you?" He's not a violent man. He's never relished physical violence. But right now, if he could, he thinks he might actually kill the people who did this to her.

"I can't tell you." His face must be showing his disbelief, because she fixes him with a stern look. "This comes from both the RCMP _and _CSS, Fraser. I trust you. But it's something bigger. Organized crime. And you knowing who's behind it won't change anything."

Fraser shifts uneasily in his seat. There has to be a way to convince her -

"Constable. I'm telling you now. Let it go."

He sighs, but there's no crack in her façade. She's not backing down. And he respects her enough to trust her decision, even though he'd much rather pack up his rucksack, hitch a ride to Ottawa or Toronto or Sicily or Nepal or Mars or wherever this whole mess is centered, and systematically destroy the people who want to kill this woman.

"What happened? How'd you escape?"

"CSS had been keeping an eye on me, knowing there was someone watching me. Two agents got to my apartment and stopped the assailant - at least, that's what I was told. They took me to the hospital as a Jane Doe; that's where I woke up. And as soon as I was strong enough, they pulled me out and smuggled me back to Canada. I've been moving between safehouses."

"Moving?" He'd have thought they'd want to keep her in one place, without risk of movements being seen.

"The original plan was to keep me outside Toronto. But someone found me. There was a bomb. I only barely got out. So CSS decided to try using the vast acreage of western Canada to their advantage. They got the RCMP to hide me out here."

"And now?"

"I don't know. No one seems to," she shrugs. "The handler believes it's safest to keep me in the country, given that they think there's a mole in CSS, and right now the RCMP is doing the best job keeping me alive. All I can do is wait."

"And you don't like that," he ventures.

"I hate it." She shuts her eyes briefly. "I can't do anything. I just - I have to sit here, wondering if someone else can solve this."

"I understand." He knows there are pieces of the story she's not telling him. Meg Thatcher does not like to show weakness, and he wonders how many sleepless nights, how many close calls, how many silent hours of fear and pain she's gone through. "So why did you come here?"

She flicks an apologetic look up at him, her eyes dark, and he catches his breath. "I - I didn't mean to intrude, Fraser. They wanted someplace remote, out of the way. It was the first place I could think of."

"Please don't mistake me, ma'am. You're always welcome here."

"Fraser - I - you don't have to call me ma'am," she says quietly. "I appreciate the courtesy, but 'Meg' is fine."

"Meg." He tries it out. It feels strange in his mouth, this diminutive name for a woman so fiercely intelligent and ambitious. "All right."

She looks at him quietly, her dark eyes keen as ever. "I don't know when they're going to move me next. But at some point, I might have to disappear again. There wouldn't be much notice."

"I understand."

She takes a breath. "Thank you. For - um - taking this all in stride."

Her hand is sitting on the table; he reaches for it, covers it with his.

"I'm just - I'm relieved that you're safe."

She smiles, and it's been a year, nearly, since he last saw her really, truly smile. It thaws the last cold spot in his chest, the last bit of ice that's been lodged in his ribs, freezing everything around it since she vanished.

Now he's remembering better things. Smiles she tried to hide. Amusement dancing in her dark eyes.

A desperate kiss atop a runaway train that neither of them could admit to forgetting.

"So." He's not sure exactly how to proceed. "Is - is there anything you need? I'm afraid I wasn't prepared for a guest, but -"

"I know it's an imposition," she says quietly. "I really don't mean to bother you. I didn't think you'd be here."

"Oh, no, not at all."

"And please don't think you have to drop everything to entertain me. I'm sure you have things to do. And anyhow, I should call Ottawa."

He nods slowly. "Understood."

So Fraser spends the day clearing out the cabin, hooking up the spare generator, shoveling snow, opening up the trash pit and walking the property. He catches a few snatches of Meg's conversation with the mysterious people keeping her alive; the gist he gets is that they're going to keep her here, rather than risk moving her, since she's apparently well-hidden, and now she's got an ally.

The thought of someone coming here, to his home, and trying to kill her, sets his blood on fire.

He will _never_ let that happen.

He hadn't really thought of her as a cook, but she surprises him; when he comes back inside, intending to start dinner, she's putting the finishing touches on some kind of chicken-pasta concoction that turns out remarkably tasty.

He can see her getting tired as the evening wears on - she's probably not been sleeping particularly well, sitting around waiting to see if she's going to be attacked again - and he quickly suggests it might be time for them both to get some rest.

She flushes. "I can move my things out to the couch."

"Not at all, ma'am. Ah. Meg." It's hard to break the habit. "Please, stay there. I'm very happy to sleep out here. I often do, anyway."

She eyes him suspiciously, but seems to accept his courtesy, instead of interpreting it as a slight against her mettle. He knows better than to doubt that now.

Fraser knows he needs to walk this line delicately. His instinctive reaction is simply to protect her, though whether it's professional loyalty, blank altruism, or something far deeper, something he's not really supposed to acknowledge. But Meg Thatcher, even in the middle of a plot against her life, is resolute. Determined.

Still, she's out of her element. They're on his turf here; his home, his country. She's a city girl. He grew up here in the wilderness, and at least here, he's the one in control.

He settles for simply offering. "If there's anything you need, I'll be right out here. Please don't hesitate to ask"

"Thank you," she says softly. "For everything."

"Good night, Meg."

It's the first time he's managed to say her name without stumbling. She smiles.

"Good night, Fraser."

Dief follows her into the bedroom, leaving Fraser standing there, staring at the doorframe, a powerful longing in his chest.

He ends up stretched out on his bedroll, one arm behind his head. He can hear her slow breathing coming from the bedroom. It's soft and even and reassuring.

_She's alive._

The thought pings through his head, over and over, an impossible comfort, until he finally drifts off.

* * *

><p>He's up early, stoking the fire, checking the pipes, inspecting the cabin. It's a minor miracle nothing has burst, cracked or splintered, but the building is in excellent shape. He's heard it's been a somewhat mild winter.<p>

As the sun climbs in the sky, he starts looking through the pantry. Meg - his mind still wants to call her Inspector Thatcher - hasn't appeared yet, but Fraser heard her feet on the floor a while ago, so he knows she's awake. He isn't sure if she's hungry, so he heads for the bedroom to ask if she wants breakfast now.

"Are you - oh."

He stops short. Meg's standing in his bedroom in just a pair of sweatpants, her bare back facing him. She gasps, instinctively covering her chest, even though she's facing away.

"Sorry! Sorry."

He retreats to the main room to find Diefenbaker staring at him.

"It was an accident," he informs the wolf quietly. Dief huffs. "It _was_. I wouldn't."

But he can't ignore the flare of heat in his veins. From the beginning, he's admitted that she's a beautiful woman. And the combination of all the pent-up, desperate longing, the guilt, the futile hope that she survived somehow, and now sharing his home with her, is building a storm inside him.

His feelings for Meg Thatcher are churning, blossoming, building in his chest until he knows it's hopeless to ignore them. But he doesn't know if she feels that way. She's been running for her life for a year now.

"Fraser?"

She's leaning into the living area, fully dressed, her cheeks flushed. He straightens. "I'm so sorry about - about earlier. I didn't realize -"

"It's all right. This _is_ your home, after all."

"It's yours, too." He says it without thinking, and only when he sees her eyes widen does he realize just what he's said. "I mean - that is - so long as you need it to be. You're welcome to stay as long as you need to."

"Thank you."

She's soft, smiling, and it's so utterly distracting that he doesn't know how he's going to get through this.

* * *

><p>He spends a few hours collecting firewood, chopping and stacking it, until he's exhausted and sweaty and drained. He throws himself into the work, trying to forget the softness in Meg's eyes as she said <em>thank you<em>. It almost works.

Fraser comes back in to find her just finishing washing their dishes from breakfast. She may move slower than he remembers, but she's still determined to be useful, or at least not a burden. He wonders how long she was stuck in physical therapy. How they even got her physical therapy if she was in hiding.

He's been seeing stiffness in her movements since the first morning he found her his bed, and when she takes in a sharp breath, leaning heavily on the counter, he's at her side in a second. "Are you all right?"

"Just sore."

"Still?" It's been almost a year. His chest knots with worry. How much worse was that attack than she's telling him?

"It's not usually this bad," she murmurs, hand pressed to her shoulder. "But it's worse up here, in the cold."

"If - I don't mean to presume, but if it's really bothering you, I could try massaging it," he offers. "I do have some experience working with sore muscles."

It's the kind of thing he'd never have dared offer, but the balance of power is different here. She hasn't come out and said it, but it seems she's relinquished any formal authority over him. On the one hand, he's not sure it's entirely healthy, the tiredness in her eyes, the lack of determination.

But on the other hand, she's not Meg Thatcher, inspector. She's just Meg, a woman who's finally willing to let him help her.

* * *

><p>She's lying facedown on his bed, just a thin shirt covering her upper body. He steels himself. He's an adult. And any inappropriate fantasies that may flit across his mind are uncalled for, unneeded, and involuntary. He's doing this to help her.<p>

He slowly explores the knots across her upper back. It's no surprise her muscles are tense. It's the tension of a sedentary life; she's obviously regained plenty of mobility, but being trapped in safehouse after safehouse, no chance to lead a regular life in daylight, hasn't helped.

It would be easier to work her muscles without the shirt in the way, but he doesn't want to make her uncomfortable. She's already vulnerable, and he knows that's not something she enjoys.

But she surprises him, lifting her head slightly. "Would this work better - um - without the shirt?"

Oh.

He wasn't expecting that.

"Uh - yes, actually. If that's all right with you."

"Just - look away for a minute."

He obligingly turns away, listening to the rustle of fabric, and only turns back at her soft, "All right."

It's her naked back - which he accidentally saw this morning - and he takes a deep breath to steady himself.

He rubs his hands together, ensuring they're warm (not that it's an issue), before gently placing them onto her skin. He doesn't miss the soft shiver that runs through her.

Her skin is smooth, pale. But there are scars. Just two, low on her right side. Fraser wonders how many more there are on her front.

But he doesn't want to work her up, so he lets focuses on his work. He digs carefully into the taut muscles, feeling the hitch and tense as she breathes, and the minutes of warm silence stretch on.

He's absorbed in the play of muscle, and only stops when his hands settle at the bottom of her spine, where her waistband finally covers her skin. He can see the edge of black underwear hidden just under.

He looks down at her, lying there breathing deeply, and he's suddenly swamped with the overwhelming desire to make love to her, right here in this bed. She sighs, more involuntary than anything, and he has to pull his hands back because he _needs_ her and he's so very close to lying beside her and pulling her into his arms.

"Meg?"

She doesn't move.

She's asleep.

He folds the blanket over her gently, careful not to wake her, and steals back out to the main room.

He's sitting by the fire, petting Dief and pretending to read, when for the first time in a long time, Bob Fraser appears.

"Son. Are you aware there's a woman in your bed?"

"Yes, Dad."

"Your commanding officer."

"Not anymore."

"She's missing her shirt."

"I'm aware of that."

Bob stares at him for a long moment. "There's probably nothing I can say that you haven't already thought of."

"Probably not."

His father nods. "I'll trust your judgment, son."

Fraser chuckles softly. "I hope that's wise."

* * *

><p>The next day, Meg seems more pensive than usual. After dinner, they settle on the worn old sofa; she never once admits that she's cold, of course, but he fetches her a blanket, which she accepts with grace.<p>

They sit side by side, staring at the fire, listening to the logs pop. Meg picks absently at the blanket.

"Do you remember when I tried to fire you?"

Fraser can't help but grin at that particular memory. "Vividly."

"We didn't start out well."

"That's a rather tactful way of putting it."

"To be honest, I read your files and I thought you were a daddy's boy, exactly the kind of person who wanted people like me out. I thought you'd cruised through the force because of who your father was. You got a transfer to Chicago, for which you were unqualified, and you spent all your time running around doing someone else's job." She smiles wryly. "I'm sorry to say I had a very incomplete picture of you. And I'm sorry that it led me to dismiss you before I gave you a real chance."

"I appreciate you saying that. And for what it's worth, you're right." He shrugs. "The only reason I came to Chicago was because I begged for the chance. I think I did just get that transfer out of pity, and because my father was - well, he was known and respected. In retrospect, I handled things - rather poorly."

"You almost drowned in a bank vault."

He nods. "I did."

"And you got us locked into an egg incubator."

His mouth turns up in a half-grin. "I was delighted to discover your pitching prowess, though."

Meg smiles, and he has the sudden, powerful, bittersweet urge to pull her close. For years he'd thought his future looked so much like this, their quiet scene by the fire. He'd assumed that he'd be married by now, a loving, bright-eyed wife sitting beside him. Children. The world he wanted, here in his homeland.

And he's starting to - to wonder -

"Do you -" he's not entirely certain if he's allowed to bring this up - "do you remember - that day on the train?"

The soft intake of breath tells him she does. Her eyes flick up to meet his, so dark, and in this soft golden firelight she's impossibly beautiful, her skin pale and smooth, her hair glossy.

"Fraser -"

Her gaze is fixed on his mouth, and without realizing it she's turning to him, leaning into his body. It's the moment before, the breath warming between them, when he knows, with certainty, that he's going to kiss her and she's going to kiss him back.

It's tentative, almost shy, just a soft brush of lips. He curls his hand around her jaw, tasting her mouth slowly, feeling the quick flutter of her pulse under her skin. She sinks into him, her lips parting under his, and everything else goes silent.

It's nothing like their first kiss, speeding through the countryside atop the train, fraught with fear and danger. This is slow. Deliberate. Gentle. It feels like everything in his world is colliding, the two spheres he's been inhabiting for so long. The woman he never thought he'd understand is kissing him, long and slow, in front of the crackling fire, here in the wilderness where he knows he belongs, and there's a dull ache deep in his chest that's he's been feeling since the moment he realized she's alive.

The kiss ends but he won't let go. He leans into her, holding her in the warmth of his body, feeling her breath on his cheek.

Could they stay like this? Just here, together, in the frozen wilderness. Where he can protect her and she can just be Meg, no rules, no red tape, no reasons he can't tell her how he feels.

His rational mind knows that they're both emotionally charged, this isn't the time to make rash decisions about anything, let alone a romantic connection. But he's spent a year longing for her. Grieving for what he thought was a horrible death. He's waited long enough to know this is what he wants.

He loves her.

It's so simple. He loves her.

He wants her to stay.

She takes a deep breath. "I missed you."

"There was a small memorial service for you at the consulate last month," he tells her, his throat getting tight at the memory of that rainy morning. "It was - particularly difficult." He'd tried not to cry. He'd failed.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, kissing him gently, her hand on his cheek.

"Stay here." His throat is tight. "Don't go."

"I don't want to."

He knows she has a satellite phone. She turns it on once a week, and for half an hour, she sits there, waiting to hear from Ottawa if they need her to vanish again. Outside of that, they're on their own.

He can feel her falling asleep on him, her head drooping on his shoulder. She's warm and soft and sleepy, and as much as he wants to stay here all night, he knows she should go to bed.

He'd kiss her awake, but it's still so new between them, whatever this is. So he settles for brushing her hair back from her face, watching her eyes flutter open, and his heart squeezes hard in his chest.

"You should get to bed."

She huffs softly. "Fine."

He's prepared to sit up a while longer, maybe keep trying to read, but she surprises him. She reaches for his hand, tugging him with her.

Oh.

Fraser follows her into the bedroom, where he slips into bed beside her and they trade soft kisses until she falls asleep.

* * *

><p>He wakes up to Meg Thatcher curled up warmly against him, face buried in his shoulder, one hand fisted in his shirt, and Diefenbaker sprawled over the foot of the bed.<p>

He thinks he might be dreaming.

* * *

><p>Before dawn, he slowly crawls out of her arms, leaving her asleep in his bed as he lights the fire and goes about his chores.<p>

He wonders what happens now.

* * *

><p>They're kissing again on his couch, and it's not tentative anymore. Meg is sure of herself, pressing him back into the cushions, devouring his mouth hungrily. He's dizzy, his body thrumming, hot, tightening, undone by the sheer perfection of it all, her slim body against his.<p>

He's in love with her and he's a tightly wound, desperate, adoring knot of uncertainty. His diligent self-control is deserting him, lost completely as she works him up with her lips and tongue and hot hands unbuttoning his shirt.

He's not in control.

She nips at his bottom lip, sucking on it teasingly, and his hips jerk up into her. His whole body goes taut, and he can feel the rush of blood draining between his legs.

He catches her wrists as she braces herself on his chest, looking up at her, panting like he's just run a race. Her eyes are wild, her cheeks flushed.

She's stunning.

"Are you sure?"

"Do you trust me?" she whispers, her hands framing his face gently. Fraser takes in a long breath, his heart stuttering in a tangle of affection and longing, along with sheer, burning physical desire. He wants her. He wants all of her.

"Of course."

He sweeps her up into his arms, and she lets out a surprised yelp, clutching reflexively at his shoulders. Not that he wasn't comfortable on the couch. But he'd much rather do this properly.

He lays her down on the bed, gently, and kisses her greedily, covering her body with his.

* * *

><p>He hadn't really meant to fall asleep, but he wakes up in the warm, gold light of late afternoon to find Meg already awake, tracing soft circles on his bare chest.<p>

"Hi," she murmurs. Her voice is soft, husky. There's a note of teasing in it.

"Hi." He doesn't know what else to say. His superior officer is naked. In his bed. Beside him.

He could get used to this.

Given her current status - nonexistent - he knows there's no immediate fear of repercussion. But he can't help thinking about the future. What happens if she has to stay in hiding?

What happens if he comes home one day and she's disappeared again?

"What's wrong?"

She's looking at him with a mixture of puzzlement and concern.

"Nothing. Nothing." He catches her hand, threading his fingers through hers. "Just thinking."

He expects her to tease him, say something like _You're thinking too loudly_. But she surprises him. Her eyes get sad, and she leans in to press a soft, light kiss to his mouth.

"That's all I've been doing for the past year."

* * *

><p>They spend the next two days more in his bed than out of it.<p>

He's surprised - and delighted - to discover that she's ticklish.

* * *

><p>A brief snowstorm sweeps over the valley, leaving the world coated with fresh snow. Diefenbaker spends the day alternately leaping through snowdrifts and running back in to sleep in front of the fireplace.<p>

They've finally managed to leave his bedroom; right now they're settled on the couch, both reading. He's paging through _Wuthering Heights_; she's absorbed in a book about the Canadian forces who served in World War I.

There's a knock at the front door.

She freezes, staring at him. His mind races. If it were truly a threat, it wouldn't be a knock. But who on earth -

Fraser reaches into his trunk and pulls out his firearms. He presses the pistol into her hands. "Stay in the bedroom. I'll see who it is."

She squeezes his hand briefly and goes. Fraser grabs his shotgun, checking to make sure she's not visible from the front door before opening it slowly.

It's a detachment of local RCMP; he immediately recognizes their insignias, though he doesn't know them personally. "Can I help you?"

"Fine way to greet an old friend, Benton."

The young constables shuffle themselves out of the way, revealing a smiling Buck Frobisher. Fraser relaxes, his grip on the shotgun loosening. "Sergeant Frobisher?"

"Hello, son. I understand you've had a houseguest recently."

It takes a moment for his brain to catch up.

Of _course_.

Frobisher's someone Meg would trust when running for safety. And Buck knows this area as well as anyone; he'd know it's a good place to stow a ghost.

"Not that I'm not enjoying the tundra, Benton, but it's a touch too cold out here for my old bones."

"Of course, sir. Sorry. Please come in."

Frobisher scrapes off his boots, pulling off his hat as he steps inside, the two younger officers trailing behind him. Meg's clearly been listening from her hiding spot; she joins them the living room. "Sergeant Frobisher."

The old sergeant smiles affably. "A real pleasure to see you again, Inspector. I'm glad to tell you that your would-be assassins are in custody, as are the men who hired them, and the entire organization. To be honest, a lot of the credit goes to the New York City police. It's a lengthy story. But it's finished now."

Meg lets out a breath, and Fraser sees her entire body falter. The words are sinking in.

It's over.

She's free.

Her eyes meet his, and there's a question there, something he wishes he knew how to answer.

"I, ah, I know it's rather a lot to take in," Frobisher continues. "As I understand it, there's still paperwork being shuffled. You have some time to put things back in order, since your - your disappearance. Headquarters will be ready to take your statement, Inspector. Whenever you're ready to come back."

"Thank you, Sergeant. I - um -" she glances back at Fraser, and he sees the uncertainty written on her face. She's torn. "I'll be back to Ottawa in a week. I have some personal business to attend to in the meantime."

"Of course, of course." He waves his hands. "I understand. Family, and all. Take your time. Benton, I trust I can ask you to help the inspector out as she requires?"

"Yes, sir."

"Glad to hear it. Well, Inspector, Benton. We're a phone call away if need be. I look forward to having you back, ma'am."

The old sergeant pauses, glancing back and forth between the two of them. His eyes are a little too keen, a bit too sharp.

But he simply tips his hat, leaving with his young constables in tow.

Meg lets out a breath. "Do you think - he knows?"

Fraser looks back at her. "You _are_ wearing my shirt." He smiles wryly. "And he was on the train that day."

* * *

><p>That evening, Fraser occupies himself making dinner while Meg takes Diefenbaker out for a walk. It's a simple thing, but he realizes it's a luxury she's been without since that night she had to disappear. Dead people don't get to go out for walks. Even here in the wilderness, she's been trapped inside.<p>

By the time he finishes cooking, she reappears, ruddy-faced and glowing, Dief romping around her heels. Her eyes are brighter than he's ever seen them.

"You know, I used to think this place must be awful. Desolate." She pulls off her mittens, unzipping her coat. "But it's beautiful. Especially since I haven't been outside in months."

"You should see it in spring. Everything blooms at once, and it's all green and wildflowers and blue skies. It's gorgeous."

Her eyes get a soft look, and only then does Fraser realize what he's saying. He wants her here in spring.

He wants her here, to stay.

Panic gnaws at his chest, but she gives him a smile.

"I'd like that."

* * *

><p>She's quiet through dinner. He doesn't push.<p>

It's later, when they're settled by the fire, that he finally asks.

"What now?"

She tugs her knees to her chest. "I don't know." He nods. "I don't -" she sighs. "I just don't know. I could go back to the RCMP. I've thought about CSS. I just - I don't know what to do."

He doesn't want to make assumptions. He knows they're from different worlds, and he knows she takes her work as seriously as he takes his. He admires that about her. He loves that about her.

"Come with me. To Ottawa."

Her voice is soft, but clear.

"Are you sure?"

She nods. "I don't know what's going to happen. I have no idea what to expect, or what the government will do. It would - be nice to have someone there I can trust."

Her eyes meet his, and Fraser catches his breath. Because it's not just a trip to Ottawa. She's letting him in. She's letting him stay close to her, in this moment when her entire life is in upheaval.

It's closer to _I love you_ than he was prepared for, and it makes his chest ache.

"All right."

He'll go to Ottawa with her. She's not his superior officer anymore; she's a brave, calm woman (_gumption_, his grandmother would have pronounced solemnly), who's quietly determined to figure out the future. And he loves her.

"Fraser?"

"Yes?"

She looks up at him with a face that's almost serious, but eyes that are limpid, dancing with mirth.

"Thank you for placidly refusing to quit when I tried to fire you."

Fraser has to laugh at that.

And kiss her.


End file.
